Читать книгу My Lords of Strogue. Volume 1 of 3 - Wingfield Lewis - Страница 1

'Hurrah! 'tis done-our freedom's won-hurrah for the Volunteers!

By arms we've got the rights we sought through long and wretched years.

Remember still through good and ill how vain were prayers and tears-

How vain were words till flashed the swords of the Irish Volunteers.'

So sang all Dublin in a delirium of triumph on the 9th of November, 1783. From the dawn of day joy-bells had rung jocund peals; rich tapestries and silken folds of green and orange had swayed from every balcony; citizens in military garb, with green cockades, had silently clasped one another's hands as they met in the street. There was no need for speech. One thought engrossed every mind; one common sacrifice of thanksgiving rolled up to heaven. For Ireland had fought her bloodless fight, had shaken off the yoke of England, and was free-at last!

The capital was crowded with armed men and bravely-bedizened dames. Carriages, gay with emblazoned panels, blocked up the narrow thoroughfares, darkened to twilight-pitch by the boughs and garlands that festooned the overhanging eaves. Noddies and whiskies and sedans, bedecked with wreaths and ribbons, jostled one another into the gutter. Troops of horse, splendidly accoutred-officers mounted upon noble hunters-clattered hither and thither, crushing country folk against mire-stained walls and tattered booths, where victuals were dispensed, without so much as a 'By your leave.' Strangers, arrived but now from across Channel, marvelled at the spectacle, as they marked the signs of widespread luxury-the strange mingling of the pomp and circumstance of war with the panoply of peace-the palaces-the gorgeously-attired ladies in semi-martial garb, swinging up and down Dame Street in gilded chairs between the Castle and the Senate House, and back again-dressed, some of them, in broidered uniforms, some in rich satin and brocade. Sure the homely court of Farmer George in London could not compare in splendour, or in female beauty either, with that of his Viceroy here.

A stranger could perceive at once that some important ceremony was afoot, for all along the leading streets long galleries had been erected, decorated each with sumptuous hangings, crowded since daybreak with a living burthen; while every window showed its freight of faces, every row of housetops its sea of heads. From the Castle to Trinity College (where a huge green banner waved) the road was lined with troops in brand-new uniforms of every cut and colour-scarlet edged with black, blue lined with buff, white turned up with red, black piped with grey; while the stately colonnades of the Parliament House over against the College were guarded by the Barristers' Grenadiers, a picked body of stalwart fellows who looked in their tall caps like giants, with muskets slung and bright battle-axes on their shoulders. King William's effigy, emblem of bitter feuds, was in gala attire to-day, as if to suggest that rival creeds were met for once in amity. Newly painted white, the Protestant joss towered above the crowd, draped in an orange cloak, crowned with orange lilies; while his horse was muffled thick with orange scarves and streamers, and wore a huge collar of white ribbons tied about his neck. Placards inscribed with legends in large characters were suspended from the pedestal to remind the cits for what they were rejoicing. 'A Glorious Revolution!' 'A Free Country!' One bigger than the rest swung in the breeze, announcing to the few who as yet knew it not, that 'The Volunteers, having overturned a cadaverous Repeal, will now effectuate a Real Representation of the People!' Yes. That was why Dublin was come out into the streets. The victorious Volunteers had untied the Irish Ixion from a torture-wheel of centuries, and, encouraged by their first success, were preparing now to pass a stern judgment on a venal parliament.

From the period of her annexation to England in the twelfth century, down to the close of the seventeenth, Ireland had been barbarous and restless; too feeble and disunited to shake off her shackles, too proud and too exasperated to despair, alternating in dreary sequence between wild exertions of delirious strength and the troubled sleep of exhausted fury. But that was over now. The chain was snapped; and the first vengeance of the sons who had freed her was to be poured on the senate who were pensioners of Britain; who had sold their conscience for a price, their honour for a wage. A grand Convention was to be opened this day at the Rotunda, from which special delegates would be despatched to Lords and Commons, demanding in the name of Ireland an account of a neglected stewardship. No wonder that the populace, dazzled by an unexpected triumph, were come out with joy to see the sight. Light-hearted, despite their sorrows, the Irish are only too ready to be jubilant. But there were some looking down from out the windows who shook their heads in doubt. The scene was bright, though the November day was overcast-pretty and picturesque, vastly engaging to the eye. So also is a skull wreathed with flowers, provided that the blossoms are strewn with lavish hand. These croakers were fain to admit that the Volunteers had done wonders. The prestige of victory was theirs. Yet is it a task hedged round with peril-the wholesale upsetting of powers that be. It was not likely that England would tamely give up her prey. She was ready to take advantage of a slip. Ireland had cause to be aware of this; but Ireland thought fit to forget it. A fig for England! she was a turnip-spectre illumined by a rushlight. A new era was dawning. Even the schisms of party-bigotry had yielded for a moment to the common weal. Catholics and Protestants had exchanged the kiss of Judas; and Dublin resigned herself to sottish conviviality.

Hark! The thunder of artillery. The first procession is on its way. It is that of the Viceroy, who, attended by as many peers as he can muster, will solemnly protest against the new-fledged insolence of a domineering soldiery who dare to set their house in order and sweep away the cobwebs. He will make a pompous progress round the promenade of Stephen's Green; thence by the chief streets and quays to King William's statue, where he will gravely descend from his equipage and bow to the Protestant Juggernaut. This awful ceremony over, he will walk on foot to the House of Lords hard-by, and the holiday-makers will be stricken with repentant terror. He has his private suspicions upon this subject though-a secret dread of the mob and of the College lads of Trinity; for rumour whispers that the wild youths will make a raid on him, and they have an ugly way of running-a-muck with bludgeons and heavy stones sewn in their hanging sleeves. So he has taken his precautions by establishing about the statue a bodyguard-a cordon of trusty troops-whose aggressive band has been braying since daybreak 'Protestant Boys,' 'God save the King,' and 'King William over the water.'

But the undergraduates are too much occupied at present in struggling for seats within the Commons to trouble about the English Viceroy. For the heads of the Convention are to arrive in state, and Colonel Grattan, it is said, will appear in person to impeach the Assembly of which he is a member. Their gallery is crammed to suffocation. Peers' sons with gold-braided gowns occupy the bench in front, silver-braided baronets crowd in behind. Peeresses too there are in their own place opposite, like a bevy of macaws. A sprinkling only; for most of the ladies, caring more for show than politics, prefer a window at Daly's club-house next door, where members drop in from time to time by their private passage to gossip a little and taste a dish of tea, while their wives enjoy the humours of the crowd and ogle the patriot soldiers.

What is that? A crack of musketry; a feu de joie, which tells that the second procession has started; that my lord of Derry is on his way to the Rotunda. And what a grand Bashaw he is, this Earl of Bristol and Bishop of Derry, who, more Irish than the Irish, has thrown himself heart and soul into their cause! There is little doubt of his popularity, for yells rend the air as he goes by, and hats are tossed up, and men clamber on his carriage. It is as much as his outriders can do to force aside the throng. A magnificent Bashaw entirely, with a right royal following. A prince of the Church as well as a grandee; handsome and débonaire; robed from top to toe in purple silk, with diamond buttons and gold fringe about the sleeves, and monster tassels depending from each wrist. A troop of light cavalry goes before, followed by a bodyguard of parsons-dashing young sparks in cauliflower wigs. Then some five or six coaches wheeze along. Then comes my lord himself in an open landau, bowing to left and right, kissing his finger-tips to the peeresses at Daly's; and after him more Volunteers on magnificent horses and a complete rookery of clergy. He turns the corner of the House of Lords, and in front of its portico in Westmoreland Street cries a halt, to gaze with satisfaction for a moment on the broad straight vista of what now is Sackville Street, which has opened suddenly before him. As far as eye may reach-away to the Rotunda-are two long lines of gallant horsemen in all the nodding bravery of plumes and pennons-a selected squadron of Volunteers which consists wholly of private gentlemen-the pride and flower of the National Army.

When the cavalcade stops there is a stir among the peeresses, for they cannot see round the corner, and are much disgusted by the fact. A clangour of trumpets wakes the echoes of the corridors. My lords have just finished prayers, and, marvelling at the strange flourish, run in a body to the entrance. The Volunteers present arms, the bishop bows his powdered head, while a smile of triumphant vanity curls the corner of his lip, and he gives the order to proceed. The lords stand shamefaced and uneasy while the people hoot at them, and the bishop's procession-with new shouts and acclamations-crawls slowly on its way.

One of the attendant carriages has detached itself from the line and comes to a stand at Daly's. Its suite divide the mob with blows from their long canes. Two running footmen in amber silk, two pages in hunting-caps and scarlet tunics, twelve mounted liverymen with coronets upon their backs. The coach-door is flung open, and a dissipated person, looking older than his years, emerges thence, and throwing largesse to the crowd, goes languidly upstairs to join the ladies.

It is my Lord Glandore of Strogue and Ennishowen, and the party up at the window to which he nods is his family. That tall refined lady of forty or thereabouts who acknowledges by a cold bow his lordship's careless salute is the Countess of Glandore (mark her well; for we shall see much of her). She has a high nose, thin lips, a querulous expression, and a quantity of built-up hair which shows tawny through its powder. She will remind you of Zucchero's portrait of Queen Bess. There is the same uncompromising mouth and pinched nostril, colourless face and haughty brow. You will wonder whether she is a bad woman or one who has suffered much; whether the wealth amid which she lives has hardened her, or whether troubles kept at bay by pride have darkened the daylight in her eyes. Stay! as your attention is turned to them you will be struck by their haggard weariness. If she is addressed suddenly their pupils dilate with a movement of fear. She sighs too at times-a tired sigh like Lady Macbeth's, as though a weight were laid on her too heavy for those aristocratic shoulders to endure. What is it that frets my lady's spirit? It cannot be my lord's unfaithfulness (though truly he's a sad rake), for this happy pair settled long since to pursue each a solitary road. Neither can it be the carking care of money troubles, such as afflict so many Irish nobles, for all the world knows that my Lord Glandore-the Pirate Earl, as he is called-is immensely wealthy, possessing a hoary old abbey which has dipped its feet in Dublin Bay for ages, and vast estates in Derry and Donegal, away in the far north.

Why the Pirate Earl? Because both his houses are on the sea; because his claret, which is of the best and poured forth like water, is brought in his own yacht from the Isle of Man, without troubling the excise; because the founder of the family-Sir Amorey Crosbie, who dislodged the Danes in 1177-was a pirate by calling; and because the Crosbies of Glandore have dutifully exhibited piratical proclivities ever since. Not that the present earl looks like a sea-faring evil-doer, with his sallow effeminate countenance and coquettish uniform. He is a high-bred, highly-polished, devil-may-care, reckless Irish peer, who, at a moment's notice, would pink his enemy in the street, or beat the watch, or bait a bull, or set a main of cocks a-spurring, or wrong a wench, or break his neck over a stone wall from sheer bravado-after the lively fashion of his order at the period. Before he came into the title he was known as fighting Crosbie. The tales told of his vagaries would set your humdrum modern hair on end-of how he pistolled his whipper-in because he lost a fox, and then set about preparing an islet of his on the Atlantic for a siege; of how he sent my Lord North a douceur of five thousand pounds as the price of pardon, and reappeared in Dublin as a hero; of how, when the earldom fell to him, he settled down by eloping with Miss Wolfe, or rather by carrying her off vi et armis, as was the amiable habit of young bloods. It was a singular Irish custom, since happily exploded, that of winning a bride by force, as the Sabine maidens were won. Yet it obtained in many parts of Ireland by general consent till the middle of the eighteenth century. Abduction clubs existed whose object was the counteracting of unjust freaks of fortune by tying up heiresses to penniless sparks. Some of the young ladies (notably the two celebrated Misses Kennedy) objected to the process, while most of them found in the prospect of it a pleasing excitement. Irish girls have always had a spice of the devil in them. It is not surprising that they should have looked kindly upon men who risked life and liberty for their sweet sakes.

Lord Glandore followed the prevailing fashion, carried off Miss Wolfe to his wild isle in Donegal, and society said it was well done. She was no heiress, but that too was well, for my lord was rich enough for both. The parson of Letterkenny was summoned to the islet to tie the knot (it was unmodish for persons of quality to be married in a church), and a year later the twain returned to the metropolis, with a baby heir and every prospect of future happiness. But somehow there was a gulf between them. Young, rich, worshipped, they were not happy. My lord went back to his old ways-drinking, hunting, fighting, wenching-my lady moped. Six years later another son was born to them, whose advent, strange to say, instead of being a blessing, was a curse, and divided the ill-assorted pair still further. Each shrined a son as special favourite, my lord taking to his bosom the younger, Terence-whilst my lady doted with a hungry love upon the elder, Shane. My lord, out of perversity maybe, swore that Shane was stupid and viciously inclined, unworthy to inherit the honours of Sir Amorey. My lady, spiteful perchance through heartache, devoured her darling with embraces, adored the ground he trod on, kissed in private the baby stockings he had outgrown, the toys he had thrown aside; and seemed to grudge the younger one the very meat which nourished him. This hint given, you can mark how the case stands as my lord enters the upper room at Daly's. Shane, a handsome, delicate youth, far up in his teens, retires nervously behind his mother, whilst Terence, a chubby child of twelve, runs forward with a shout to search his father's pocket for good things. What a pity, you think no doubt, for a family to whom fortune has been so generous to be divided in so singular a manner.

'What!' cries my lord, as, laughing, he tosses the lad into the air. 'More comfits? No, no. They'd ruin thy pretty teeth, to say nothing of thy stomach. Go play with mammy's bayonet. By-and-by thou shalt have sword and pistol of thine own-aye, and a horse to ride-a dozen of them!' And the boy, without fear, obeys the odd behest, for he knows that in his father's presence my lady dares not chide him, albeit she makes no pretence of love. He takes the dainty weapon from its sheath and makes passes at his big brother with it; for my Lady Glandore, like many another patriotic peeress, wears a toy-bayonet at her side, just as she wears the scarlet jacket piped with black of her husband's regiment, the high black stock, and a headdress resembling its helmet.

Let us survey the remaining members of the family. The little girl, who looks unmoved out of great brown eyes at the glancing weapon's sheen, is first cousin to the boys; daughter of my lady's brother, honest Arthur Wolfe, who, leaning against the casement, smiles down upon the crowd. He is, folks say, a lawyer of promise, though not gifted. Rumour even whispers that if Fitzgibbon should become lord chancellor, Mr. Wolfe would succeed to the post of attorney-general. Not by reason of his talents, for Arthur, though plodding and upright, can never hope to hold his own at the Irish Bar by his wits. There are too many resin torches about for his horn lantern to make much show. But then you see he is of gentle blood, and influence is of more practical worth than talent. His sister, who loves him fondly, is Countess of Glandore, which fact may be counted unto him as equivalent to much cleverness. He knows that he is not bright, and is honest enough to revere in others the genius which is denied to himself. That is the reason why, not heeding my lord's entrance, he bows eagerly to somebody in the street, and bids his little daughter kiss her hand and nod.

My lady, to avoid looking at her husband, follows his eyes and exclaims, with a contraction of her brows:

'Good heavens, Arthur! who in the world's your friend? He looks like a grimy monkey in beggar's rags! Sure you can't know the scarecrow?'

'That is one of the cleverest men in Dublin,' returns her brother. 'He'll make a show some day. Even the arrogant Fitzgibbon, before whose eye the Viceroy quails, is afraid of that dirty little man. That is John Philpot Curran, M.P. for Kilbeggan, who has just taken silk. The staunchest, worthiest, wittiest, ugliest lawyer in all Ireland.'

'Curran!' echoed my lord with curiosity; 'I've heard of him. He dared t'other day to flout Fitzgibbon himself in parliament, and the ceiling didn't crumble. Let's have him up; he may divert us.'

But Curran took no heed of Arthur's beckoning. He knew that his exterior was homely, and moreover liked not the society of lords and ladies. Born of the lower class, he loved them for their sufferings, identified himself with their wrongs, and was wont frequently to say that 'twixt the nobles and the people there was an impassable abyss. Besides, though brave as a lion, he respected his skin somewhat, and knew that my lord was as likely as not to prod him with a rapier-point if he ventured on a sally which was beyond his aristocratic comprehension. Turning, therefore, to a young man who was his companion, he whispered:

'Let us be off, Theobald. The likes of us are too humble for such company,' and was making good his retreat, when he heard the imperious voice shout out:

'Bring him here, I say-some of you-shoeblacks, chairmen, somebody-or by the Hokey ye'll taste of my rascal-thrasher.'

Then, amused at the conceit of being summoned like a lackey, he shrugged his round shoulders, and saying, 'Isn't it wondrous, Theobald, how these spoilt pets of fortune rule us!' turned into Daly's with his comrade, and was ushered up the stairs.

Mr. Wolfe gave a hand to each of the new-comers, and presented them to his sister. 'Mr. Curran's name is sufficient passport to your favour,' he said, in his gentle way. 'This young man is my godson and protégé, also at the bar-Theobald Wolfe Tone;' then added in a whisper, 'son of the coach-maker of whom you have heard me speak. A stout-souled young fellow, if a trifle hotheaded and romantic.'

All the peeresses turned from the windows to look at Mr. Curran, whose boldness in asserting popular views was bringing him steadily to the front, while his intimacy with Grattan (the popular hero) caused him to be treated with a respect which his mean aspect hardly warranted. In person he was short, thin, ungraceful. His complexion had the same muddy tinge which distinguished Dean Swift's, and his hair lay in ragged masses of jet black about his square brows, unrestrained by bow or ribbon. His features were coarse and heavy in repose, but when thought illumined his humorous eye there was a sudden gush of mind into his countenance which dilated every fibre with the glow of sacred fire. As a companion he was unrivalled both as wit and raconteur, which may account for my lord's sudden whim of civility to the low-born advocate; but there was also a profound undercurrent of melancholy (deeper than that which is common to all Irishmen) which seemed to tell prophetically of those terrible nights and days, as yet on the dim horizon of coming years, when he should wrestle hand to hand with Moloch for the blood of his victims till sweat would pour down his forehead and his soul would faint with despair. By God's mercy the future is a closed book to us; and Curran knew not the agony which lay in wait for him, though even now he was suspicious of the joy that intoxicated Dublin.

'Well, gentlemen,' remarked his lordship, amiably; 'this is a glorious day for Ireland, is it not? Her sons have united. She stands redeemed and disenthralled. The work is nearly finished. Thanks to Mr. Grattan and the Bishop of Derry, we are once more a nation. I vow it is a pretty sight.'

'How long will it last?' asked Curran, with a dubious headshake. 'That gorgeous bishop is a charlatan, I fear. We're only a ladder in his hand, to be kicked over by-and-by. All this is hollow, for in the hubbub the real danger is forgotten.'

'To unwind a wrong knit up through many centuries is no easy matter,' assented Arthur Wolfe.

'It's done with, and there's an end of it,' decided his lordship, who was not good at argument. 'If the parliament submits with grace to the new régime, then we shall have all we want.'

'There's the Penal Code still,' returned Curran, shaking his head, while Theobald, his young companion, sighed. 'Four-fifths of the nation remains in slavery. The accursed Penal Code stands yet, with menace at the cradle of the Catholic, with threats at his bridal bed, with triumph beside his coffin. I can hardly expect your lordship to join in my indignation, for you are a member of the Protestant Englishry, and as such look with contempt on such as we. The relation of the victorious minority to the vanquished majority remains as disgracefully the same as ever. It is that of the first William's followers to the Saxon churls, of the cohorts of Cortès to the Indians of Peru. Depend upon it, that till the Catholics are emancipated from their serfdom there can be no real peace for Ireland.'

Theobald, whom his godfather had charged with a tendency to romance, here blurted out with the self-sufficiency of youth, 'United! of course not. How can a work stand which will benefit the few and; not the many? This movement is for a faction, not for a people. Look at that statue there, with the idiots marching round it! It is the accepted symbol of a persecution as vile as any that disgraced the Inquisition! I'd like to drag it down. It's a Juggernaut that has crushed our spirit out. The Volunteers have set us free, have they? Yet no Catholic may carry arms, no Catholic may hold a post more important than that of village rat-catcher; no Catholic may publicly receive the first rudiments of education. If he knows how to read he has picked up his learning under a hedge, in fear and trembling; he's on the level of the beast; yet has he a soul as we have, and is, besides, the original possessor of the soil!'

The young man (pale-faced he was, and slight of build) stopped abruptly and turned red, for my lady's look was fixed on him with undisguised displeasure.

'I beg pardon,' he stammered, 'but I feel strongly-'

'Are you a Roman Catholic?' she asked.

'No,' replied her brother for him, as he patted the scapegrace on the shoulder. 'But he is bitten with a mania to become a champion of the oppressed. He has written burning pamphlets, which, though I cannot quite approve of them, I am bound to confess have merit.'

'That have they!' said Curran, warmly. 'The enthusiasm's there, and the cause is good. But if a man would sleep on roses he had best leave it alone, for anguish will be the certain portion of him who'd fight the Penal Code. Modern patriotism consists too much of eating and drinking and fine clothes to be of real worth.'

'I believe you are too convivially disposed to object to a good dinner!' laughed Lord Glandore. 'There's a power of cant in these patriotic views. As regards us Englishry, the inferiority of our numbers is more than compensated by commanding vigour and organisation. It's a law of nature that a weak vessel should give way before a strong one. History tells us that our ancestors, the English colonists, sturdy to begin with, were compelled by their position to cultivate energy and perseverance, while the aborigines never worked till they felt the pangs of hunger, and were content to lie down in the straw beside their cattle. The Catholics are the helot class. Let them prove themselves worthy of consideration if they can.'

'The Irish Catholics of ability,' returned the neophyte, 'are at Versailles or Ildefonso, driven from here long since.'

'False reasoning, my lord,' said doughty Curran. 'The "Englishry," as you call them, are the servants of England. Their interests are the same, because England pays them well. How can a nation's limbs obey her will if it is weighed to the earth by gyves? First knock off the irons, then bid her stand upon her feet. As the boy says, folks are too fond of prancing round that statue. I don't myself see a way out of the darkness. Why should it not be given to him, and such as he, to lead us from the labyrinth?'

My lord wished he had not summoned these low persons. Before he could reply the young man said sadly:

'What can a lawyer do but prose?'

And Arthur Wolfe, perceiving a storm brewing, cried out with nervous merriment:

'What! harping on the old string, Theobald? Still pining for a military frock and helmet? Boy, boy! Look at the pageant that is spread before our eyes. The triumph of this day is due to its bloodlessness. This grand array would not disgrace its cloth, I'm sure, in the battle; but happily success has been achieved by moral force alone. Right is might with the Volunteers. May their swords never leave their scabbards!'

'You cannot deny,' persisted the froward youth, 'that yonder battalions would be a grander sight if they really represented the nation without regard to creed-if, for example, every other man among them was a Catholic!'

My lord looked cross, my lady black as thunder, so Wolfe, the peacemaker, struck in again as he twisted his fingers in his little daughter's curls.

'I agree that it is monstrous,' he said, with hesitation, 'that three million men with souls should be plough-horses for conscience' sake. In these days it's a scandal. Sister, you must admit that. Perhaps we are entering on a better time. A reformed parliament, if you can get it, will no doubt emancipate the Catholics. You are a hare-brained lad, my godson; but here is a Catholic little girl who shall thank you. Doreen, my treasure, you may shake hands with Theobald.'

My lord waxed peevish, and drummed his fingers on the shutters and yawned in the face of Curran, for he sniffed in the wind a quarrel which would bore him. If folks would only refrain, he thought, from gabbling about these Catholics, what a comfort it would be. My lady, usually disagreeable, was threatening a scene; for they had got on the one subject which set all the family agog. Her spouse wished heartily that she would retire to the family vault, or be less ill-tempered; for what can be more odious than a snappish better-half?

Religious differences had set the country by the ears ever since the Reformation, turning father against son, kinsman against kinsman; and this especial family was no exception to the rule. Lady Glandore hated the Papists with all the energy of one whose soul is filled with gall, and who lacks a fitting outlet for its bitterness. What must then have been her feelings when, ten years before the opening of this chronicle, her only brother, whom she loved, thought fit to wed a Catholic? It was a weak, faded chit of a thing who lived for a year after her marriage in terror of my lady, gave birth to a daughter and then died. The countess, who had endured her existence under protest, was glad at least that she was well behaved enough to die; some people said indeed that she had frightened Arthur's submissive wife into her untimely grave. Be this as it may, the incubus removed, my lady girded up her loins for the effacing of the blot on the escutcheon. The puling slut was gone-that was a mercy. Why had she not proved barren? There was still a way of setting matters straight. Little Doreen must be washed clean from Papist mummeries, and received into the bosom of THE Church, and the world would forget in course of time how the young lawyer, usually as soft as wax, had flown in the face of his belongings. To her horror and amazement Arthur for once proved adamant-he who had always given way rather than break a lance in the lists-sternly commanding his sister to hold her tongue. His Papist wife, whom he regretted sorely, had exacted a promise on her deathbed that Doreen should be brought up in her mother's faith, and a Papist Doreen should be, he swore, at least till she arrived at an age to settle the question for herself. He would be glad though, he continued, seeing with pain how shocked my lady looked, if in her sisterly affection she would lay prejudice aside and help to rear the child; for the sharpest of men, as all the world knows, is no better than a fool in dealing with babies. And so it befell that the Countess of Glandore, the haughty chatelaine who scoffed at 'mummeries' and worshipped King William as champion of the Faith, nourished a scorpion in her bosom for Arthur's sake, and permitted the little scarlet lady to consort with her own lads. My lady's hatred of the national creed had a more bitter cause even than class prejudice. She had a private and absorbing reason for it, more feminine than theological. That reason was-a woman, and a rival-a certain Madam Gillin, widow of a small shopkeeper, with whom the rakish earl chose to be too familiar. Vainly she had swallowed her pride to the extent of begging him to respect his wife in public. He had called her names, bidding her mind her distaff; then had carried in mischief the story to his love, who set herself straightway to be revenged upon my lady.

'The stuck-up bit of buckram's a half-caste at the best!' she had exclaimed. 'She forgets that a Cromwellian trooper was her ancestor, whilst I can trace my lineage from a race of kings. The blood of Ollam Fodlah's in my veins. My forefathers were reigning princes before Anno Domini was thought of, and received baptism at the hands of St. Columba before Erin was a land of bondage. It is seldom that one of my faith can bring sorrow on one of hers; and, please the pigs, I'll not miss my opportunity.'

And indeed Madam Gillin showed all a woman's ingenuity in torturing another. She dragged my lord, who was nothing loth, at her kirtle strings, all through Dublin; paraded him everywhere as her own chattel; kept him dangling by her side at ridottos and masquerades, till my lady, whose mainspring was pride, dared not to show her face at Smock Alley or Fishamble Street, or even on the public drive of Stephen's Green, for fear of being insulted by this Popish hussy. She strove to find comfort in her family, as many an outraged woman does, but that was worse than all; for she looked with groaning on her eldest born, whom his father could not endure, then at that rosy, chubby younger one, and loathed him. Truly the life of the Countess of Glandore was as bran in the mouth to her, despite the wealth of my lord, his great position, and his influence. No wonder if there was an expression of settled weariness about those handsome eyes and peevish lines about her jaded mouth.

My lord drummed his white fingers impatiently-the dry-skinned fingers that mark the libertine-because of all things he hated being bored, and knew that religious discussions would bring reproaches anent Gillin. It was with relief that he beheld a gay coach half-filled with flowers, swaying in the crowd below, which contained the graces en titre of Dublin, Darkey Kelly, Peg Plunkett, and Maria Llewellyn-over-painted, over-feathered, over-dressed, like a parterre of full-blown peonies. Their apparition caused a diversion at the windows. All the peeresses stared stonily through gold-rimmed glasses as the trio passed with the calm impertinence of high-born fine ladies, for it stirreth the curiosity of the most blasée Ariadne to mark what manner of female it is who hath robbed her of her Theseus. My lord roared with laughter to see the sorry fashion in which the houris bore the ordeal, vowing 'fore Gad that he must go help them with his countenance; for there is naught so discomfiting to a fair one who is frail as a public display of contempt from one who is not. Out he sallied, therefore, drawing his sword as a hint for the scum to clear a passage; but, ere he could reach the Graces, they were borne away by the stream, and their coach had made way for a noddy, in which sat a comely woman, with bright mouse-like eyes, and a complexion of milk and roses. When the newcomer observed my lord buffeting in her direction, her lips parted in a gratified smile, and she cast a glance of triumph at the club-house; for she knew that at a window there a certain high nose might be discerned, which set her teeth on edge-set in a white scornful face, whose aspect made her blood to boil.

'That woman again!' my lady was heard to murmur, as she abruptly quitted her place. 'The globe's not large enough for her and me. I hate the baggage!'

Mr. Curran, who, if untidy and unkempt, was a man of the world and shrewd withal, tried a little joke by way of clearing the sulphur from the atmosphere; but it fell quite flat, and he looked round with a wistful air of apology as a dog does that has wagged his tail inopportunely.

'Let's be off, Theobald, 'he suggested. 'Whatever can the Volunteers be doing? Why does their return procession tarry? They should be here by this, for 'tis past three. Ah, here's Fitzgibbon, the high and mighty Lucifer, who'd wipe his shoes upon us if he dared. Maybe he brings us news.'

Instinctively everybody made way for Fitzgibbon, the brilliant statesman who already swept all before him. Even his enemies admitted his ability, whilst deploring his flagrant errors. In his fitful nature good and evil were ever struggling for the mastery. Was he destined to achieve perennial fame, or doomed to eternal obloquy? Liberal, hospitable, munificent, he was; but unscrupulous to boot, and arrogant and domineering. A man who must become a prodigious success, or an awful ruin. For him was no middle path. Which was it to be? Opinion was divided; but as at present his star was in the ascendant, his foes were outnumbered by his friends.

This man who aspired to be chancellor, and as such to direct the Privy Council, was dark, of middle height, with a sharp hatchet face and oblique cast of eye. No one could be pleasanter or more flashy than Fitzgibbon if he chose, for he united the manners of a grand seigneur with some culture, and could keep his temper under admirable control. But he preferred always to browbeat rather than conciliate, though he was a master of diplomacy, if such became worth his while. On the present occasion he strode hastily into the room as though Daly's was his private property, and, with a polished obeisance to the peeresses, flourished a perfumed kerchief.

'It's all over for the present,' he cried, with a harsh chuckle. 'The fatuous fools have postponed their grand coup till to-morrow, not perceiving that dissension is already at work among them. Oh, these Irish! They are only fit to burrow in holes and dig roots out of the earth. There is no keeping them in unison for two consecutive minutes. The sooner England swallows them the better, the silly donkeys!'

'I believe your honour is an Irishman?' asked Curran, dryly.

'Bedlamites, one and all, who crave for the impossible. I've no patience with them.' Here Mr. Fitzgibbon helped himself to a pinch from my lady's snuffbox.

'Bedad, ye're right,' sneered Curran. 'We're absurd to pretend to a heart and ventricles all to ourselves. We should be grateful-mere Irish-to be by favour the Great Toe of an empire!'

'England has always betrayed us!' cried out young Tone, the neophyte. 'Knowing we're hungry, she throws poisoned bones to us. The only way to set right our parliament will be to break with England altogether!'

The bold sentiment set all the peeresses tittering. They cackled of freedom, and were bedizened in smart uniforms; yet were there few of these noble ladies whose hearts were really with the new crusade. It was vastly diverting to hear this David attacking the great Goliath. They settled their skirts to see fair play; but Fitzgibbon for once was ungallant.

'Your godson, isn't it, Wolfe?' he remarked carelessly. 'Send for the child's nurse that he may be put to bed.'

He could not sweep Curran aside in this magnificent fashion, so he elected to be unaware of his presence. He disliked the little advocate because he feared him. Yes, the would-be aristocrat was mortally afraid of the plebeian-a privilege which he accorded to few men on earth. The two had risen at the Bar side by side, till the influence which Fitzgibbon could command gave him an advantage which his undoubted talent enabled him to keep. With sure and steady progress he forced himself above his fellows, and won the adulation which accompanies success. It was his crumpled roseleaf that Curran should be keen enough to gauge his real value; that he should despise him as a mountebank, that he should read within his heart that personal ambition was his motive-spring, not love of country. As it happened, Curran was a master of invective, and no niggard of his shafts; so Fitzgibbon tried flattery, and got jeered at for his pains, which produced a hurricane of sarcasm. It was with rage that he accepted at last a fact. If there was one person who could stop his soaring Pegasus in full career, that man was common-looking Curran. So the arrogant candidate for honours marked out his enemy as one who must be watched, and if possible circumvented; and the more he watched the more he detested that odious little creature.

He did not choose therefore to take umbrage at his taunts; but, mindful of the adage that to be anhungered is to be cross, announced that a collation awaited the pleasure of their ladyships. Now patriotism is one thing, and fine clothes another; but there are times when cold beef will bear the palm from either. So was it on this occasion. The peeresses rose up with unromantic unanimity at the mere mention of cold beef, seizing each the arm of the nearest gentleman; and so Curran and his young friend, being unable to escape, found themselves standing presently before a well-furnished board, hemmed in on either side by a lady of high rank.

The showy Fitzgibbon was master of the situation, for Curran was not a lady's man, and the neophyte in such noble company was sheepish. His harsh voice rose unchallenged in polished periods as he explained between two mouthfuls the mess the Volunteers were making. Curran smiled at his imprudence; for was he not flinging dirt at the popular idol-that glittering national army which had worked such miracles; whose many-coloured uniforms sparkled in every street, on the very backs of the dainty dames who looked up at him surprised?

'No good will come of it,' cried the contemptuous great man, as he waved a silver tankard. 'They are acting illegally; are pausing before they dare to overthrow constitutional authority, as the regicides did before they chopped off Charles's head. A little ham, my lady? No? Do, to please me. Will you, my dear Curran? Just a little skelp? Pray do, for you look as if you'd eat me raw; and that young man too. I vow he is a cannibal. What was I saying? He who vilifies those who are in power is sure of an audience, you know. Positively, this regeneration scheme is laughable, quite laughable!'

'Stop your friend,' said some one to Curran, 'or there'll be swords drawn before the ladies;' to which the other answered, 'Friend! No friend of mine, or indeed of any one except himself, the maniac incendiary! Ask Arthur Wolfe. Perhaps he will interfere.'

But Fitzgibbon was not acting without a purpose. He ate his ham with studied nonchalance, shaking back his ruffles with unrivalled grace; and he at least was sorry when an unexpected circumstance occurred which withdrew the attention of his audience from himself and his insidious talk.

There was a mighty noise without which shook the windows. The undergraduates, hearing that the battle was postponed, poured forth from their gallery in the Commons with the fury of a pent-up river suddenly let loose. They had wasted their time and energies. Their lithe young limbs were cramped. Something must be done to set the blood dancing through their veins again. What did they behold as they dashed out into the street? Peg Plunkett and her companions flirting with soldiers-not Volunteers, but actually English soldiers, members of the Viceroy's bodyguard. It must never be said that Irish Phrynes gave their favours to English soldiers-at such a time too! Fie on them for graceless harlots! Their feathers should be plucked out-they should be ducked-the English Lotharios should be well drubbed-driven back to the Castle with contumely and bloody noses. Hurrah! Pack a stone in the sleeve and have at them, the spalpeens! It was well for the Viceroy that he went home when he did, without strutting, as he proposed to do, once more round Juggernaut; or he would certainly have been assaulted by the mischievous collegians, and a serious riot would have been the consequence. But Darkey Kelly and Maria Llewellyn! Pooh! it served them right, and no one pitied them. At all events, the peeresses (mothers of the lads) said so, as they leisurely returned to the discussion of cold beef and politics. They were too well broken to street brawls to care much about a stampede of college youths. But that Fitzgibbon should presume to attack the national army was too bad, and touched them home. None of them dared admit that English gold was more precious than national freedom. There are secrets that for very shame we would go any lengths rather than divulge. These ladies made believe to be terribly shocked-threatened to assail the adventurous wight like bewitching Amazons; but he knew them too well to be alarmed. If Curran could read him, he could read the peeresses; and neither subject was an edifying one for investigation.